


The Third Tuesday of Every Month

by aireagoir



Series: The Third Tuesday [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, POV Tony Stark, Philanthropy, Pining, Team as Family, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark-centric, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 18:08:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7474485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aireagoir/pseuds/aireagoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Third Tuesday of every month is set aside for Tony Stark to be the man he knows he can be.<br/>It's set aside to be the man too fragile to share with others.<br/>It's set aside to grieve that his best makes him the Best Tony Stark.<br/>It doesn't make him anybody else.<br/>It's private and funny and touching.<br/>It's simple and he likes that it's simple.<br/>The Third Tuesday of the month is the day Tony looks at himself in the mirror and tries to smile.<br/>He waits for a smile back but it's not coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Third Tuesday of Every Month

Tony liked to say he was, in order of importance to him, a genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist. He liked to say it really fast; a quip that rolled off his tongue with a hint of kinky _je ne sais quoi_ that promised a good time in the bedroom or the boardroom, your choice. Even though Pepper had smoothed off the rough edges…okay, even though Pepper had taken an industrial-grade diamond sander to the rough edges, Tony was still a bad boy. He hadn’t changed so much. It was more that the definition of _bad_ had been smoothed a little around the edges.

This is why on the third Tuesday of every month Tony had to hide. Completely hide, where nobody but JARVIS could see or hear him. Once a month, during this infinitesimal blip when he could not be found via Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat or his Starkphone, Tony was doing something absolutely nobody on the planet knew about, unless you counted JARVIS as a person. JARVIS was, obviously, but some people thought “a flesh corporeal form” was needed to be a person. Ugh. Traditional and low-reaching intellectual peasants were such a pain in the ass.

Tony went to his casual clothing closet, gently tugged at the panel behind his informal leather shoes, and then slid into his secret bomb shelter. It was a bomb shelter big enough for himself and Pep…oh. Were he and Pepper still...? He should ask. Could need a bigger emergency bomb shelter. It was so secret Tony did ALL of the handiwork himself and it didn’t even show up on a blueprint, robotic interface or heat signature scan. It was built for Pepper and him. It wasn't built for Tony and, uh, a bigger person. It would never need to be. Looking at the double bed was like looking at a double absence. The person that should have fit there didn't want to any more. The person that wouldn't fit there...wouldn't fit there. Enough said.

It was simple (a leather love seat below the raised double bed) yet functional (42 inch screen for TV, movies and untraceable access to JARVIS). There was a staircase to the left of the screen, leading to a mini bathroom and fully stocked kitchenette. Everything was painted in ecru with plum accents. The most interesting thing about the room was that it was so plain, so utilitarian nobody would credit its existence because Tony Stark doesn’t _do_ small. Thus, it remained utterly camouflaged.

Tony took a second to flip through six monitors on the screen so he could be certain his absence wouldn’t be remarked upon. Bruce was in his lab. Nat and Peter Parker were sparring, while Phil typed paperwork and Maria flipped through things on a Starkpad. Pepper was in her office with an intern who was crying so that was her morning settled, then.

And now, Tony got to it.

First. “JARVIS, play Solitary Mix #1, thanks.” Tony felt ten pounds lighter as his most private soundtrack began to play, John Denver’s voice subtly filling the shelter with “Annie’s Song.”

“JARVIS, let’s start with the usual. Any discrepancies or concerns with the acknowledged charity and philanthropy wings of SI?”

“No, sir. All of your publicly known donation schemes have been audited and found accurate.”

“Do we have any staff that have an emergency financial situation?”

“I believe there is one that qualifies as such, yes, sir. Raul Ortega from Information Services put in a request for unpaid leave two days ago. The reason listed on the form is that his infant daughter was born prematurely with lung and heart defects which will require extensive surgeries.”

“Does our insurance normally cover that?”

“To an extent, but Mr. Ortega would still be out of work for several days for each surgery and as the family’s only wage earner Human Resources also marked his file for the free counseling provided to all SI employees going through traumatic situations.”

“Sure. Makes sense. Uh, find the hospital, find the billing people for the Ortegas, and get the bills sent directly to me. Tell the Ortegas something. Anything. Are they—what. Catholic? I bet Catholic. Tell them Catholic Family Services paid the bills as a charitable service for patients under the age of two.”

“Excellent, sir. What shall we do if the Ortegas are not Catholic?”

“Find out what they are and it make it THAT Family Service! If we end up with Family Services dedicated to the One True Savior Our Lord the Flying Spaghetti Monster then so what? I’ve done weirder shit. Not since I quit cocaine, but the principle stands.”

 

“Naturally, sir. That’s the conclusion of in-house business. Shall we move to anonymous long-term giving?” JARVIS put a spreadsheet on the screen. “Sir, if I may, perhaps we should start with the most unpleasant. Naturally, there is no longer a need to send funds for the continued care of SSR Director Peggy Carter. Would you like to close that account, sir?”

Tony frowned. God, he had loved Aunt Peg. As he got older Tony saw that Peggy had been all the more special in his life because she had steadfastly refused Howard’s atrocious come-ons. She’d rebuke him in a tone that would peel paint off the walls, flash a devastating smile, and then proceed to drink Howard under the table. Tony loved any woman that would leave dear old dad both sexually frustrated _and_ unable to cope with bright lights or loud noises for 36 hours afterwards. Tony couldn’t say it, not even to Pepper, but Peggy was a role model. A role model he didn’t deserve until the day he put on the first suit and vowed not to be a better weapons dealer, but a better man. He hoped somehow Peg knew that.

“JARV, close it as a personal account. Instead, let’s give the place a lump sum…yeah. Can you create a charitable foundation started by the SSR in, I don’t give a shit, uh, 1967? Give them a history of making donations a few times a decade. Say those funds have now been given as a memorial to Margaret Carter for them to hire more kitchen staff and improve the dining services. I once heard Cap say he thought her tray didn’t look appetizing, so, see how far they can get with $750,000 and we’ll revisit this on next month’s agenda. Get a mid-level exec to manage the money properly, a trustworthy person on our end who will put a boot up the nursing home’s butt if they mismanage the cash or don’t use it to improve food services.”

It was Cap’s offhand comment that got Tony into secret philanthropy three years ago. Steve was visiting Peggy and had been upset by Peggy’s dinner; the casserole wasn’t warm because they had so many people to serve, her fruit was bruised and the dessert was instant vanilla pudding. Tony told Steve not to fret--he knew a guy. Cap shook his hand and said, “Anything you could do would be so appreciated, Tony. That’s my Peg in there,” then Cap walked quickly to the elevator with tears in his eyes and it was never brought up again. Tony began sending $600 a month to one of the home’s assistant chefs to make certain Peggy always got her food on time and with added touches such as veggies straight from the Farmers Market or slices of Napoleon for a decadent dessert.

In return, one morning Tony overheard Steve in the common room, telling an amused Natasha that the last meal he saw must have been a bad day, because the magnificent dinner Peggy got last night included lobster bisque, still steaming, and a creampuff bigger than his fist at the end of the meal. When Bruce asked why Tony was smiling at nothing into the middle distance he replied, “I produced a spectacularly satisfying dump this morning.” Ending conversations is so much easier than polite people believe.

That night he began working on a room only he would know about. A place where Stark Industries wasn't the monolith behind the money: it was Tony, doing what he hoped was right, because he desperately craved the approval of the man that knew What Was Right.

 

“Very well, sir. $750,000 to the nursing home from a 49 year old SSR fund we’ve just created. Up next, you asked to see footage of the Veterans Administration where Sam Wilson was a social worker until the internal strife which—”

“JARVIS, I know why the fuck I’m not talking to Wilson in person. Just roll the video.”

He watched ten silent minutes of meeting being held in a circle, where everyone was seated on folding metal chairs and getting coffee from an urn that looked like they had found it roadside with a “For Free” sign taped on it. The offices were even more dismal; people perched on broken chairs in which Tony wouldn’t make Dum-E sit, horrible scuffed tile floors looking worse under cheap fluorescent lighting, and, holy cow, “Jarv, can you tell what year that copier is from?”

“1991, sir. The records show they call for maintenance on it every two weeks, and the standard office computers are desk models from 2001. It may interest you to know, sir, that the VA is so slow to get help for many veterans because they still do most important things on paper.”

“What does that mean?”

“When a vet needs housing assistance or medical care, they are often forced to wait months or even years because it must go through the system, and the applications are written on paper.”

“Paper as in dead tree format?”

“The very same, sir.”

Tony closed his eyes while he pinched the bridge of his nose and silently counted to ten. _War is indeed hell_ , he mused. He took another cleansing breath and smiled as “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy From Company B” started on the music channel.

“All right buddy, this is an easy one. Right now, hack into whatever governmental agency is asleep at the wheel and create the paper trail for what’s going to happen this week. You’ll need to fudge the funding. Make that part Senator Stern’s fault due to miscalculation and incompetence.

“First step, we need some official looking person with an ID on one of those, whatchamacallits, a LANYARD. Yes. Get ID on a lady with a lanyard to the VA to tell them a requisition number blah blah blah has finally come through for them. Have Lanyard Woman tell them the renovation happens Friday night til Sunday afternoon. Painting happens Friday night after close of business. A team does the offices, hallways and meeting rooms. Do hallways and offices in a warm and light neutral, I’m thinking taupe-ish, and giant meeting area in a medium gray, white trim. Saturday is new floor time. The floors should be done in a nice sustainable bamboo. Get me an estimate on moderately priced bamboo that will force the VA building into the 21st century. That night the new computers are installed at each work station. Sunday, they get better quality bulbs for their lights, 80 better quality collapsing chairs for the meeting space, 60 desk chairs, and have a printer delivered for each floor. Think that covers it?”

“I think the VA would be very pleasantly surprised, sir. If my government rates calculations are correct sir, this project is coming in at 2.4 million dollars.”

“Is that all? Hell, throw in a nice coffee station—espresso, cappuccinos, gourmet cocoa and whatnot. Plus, deliver a new front desk that matches the flooring. Be ready with all of the required paperwork tonight by 5:00, I want Lanyard Woman to be briefed and doing her thing Wednesday morning at 9:30 sharp. Moving on?” Tony stretched a bit as "Never Tear Us Apart" by INXS kicked in on the background speakers.

 

“Very good sir. Last month you asked for an update on Project Smirnoff?”

“Yeah. How’s our favorite Russian shooter you store in the freezer?”

“No change, sir. I have been monitoring the nine scientific sites we felt were mostly likely to create solutions to Sgt. Barnes’ difficulties but I’m afraid there is no promising news on the horizon.”

Tony sat there. He thought about Barnes. Which naturally led  _there,_ dammit.

“How is he, J?”

“Sir, the Captain almost never takes an action that will leave a trace through my system. Although fourteen days ago there was a remote access to one of Captain Rogers’ computer files that remain stored in my database. The action lasted 3.7 seconds and resulted in the download of 7 MB of personal data. It was his only attempt to use a Stark database in the last 28 days.”

“How personal?”

“Sir, it was nothing that impacted product management, research or development of Stark Industries in any way.”

“Goddammit JARVIS, how personal?”

“Three photographs, sir."

"Let's hear it."

"Sir, the first two were pictures of Sgt. Barnes taken in the weeks that he and Capt. Rogers lived in the Tower.”

"Were they together?"

Tony might have imagined it, but he could have sworn JARVIS used a quieter tone of voice. "Sir, the photos were of the angle popularly known as the selfie. Both men were in the picture. The picture was taken on the deck of the 32nd floor. They were... Sgt. Barnes and Captain Rogers were kissing, sir."

“And the third?”

“Sir—”

“ **JARVIS**.”

The AI took a moment to collect its thoughts, if AIs can do that.

“The third was a picture of the events that happened the evening of March 11. To be precise, Dr. Banner, his Royal Highness Thor Odinson, Col. Rhodes, Ms. Romanoff and Mr. Barton are attempting to roast marshmallows over your Mark XVI suit prototype which caught fire in the lab, sir. Ms. Potts and Ms. Hill are restraining you from extinguishing the fire as Mr. Wilson is using one of his wings to fan the flames higher. In the background the outline of Agent Phil Coulson can be seen, carrying a very large armful of paperwork. Based upon the look Capt. Rogers is giving the photographer, I surmise Sgt. Barnes was the person behind the camera, sir.”

Tony sat on the couch. And sat there, reflecting. He sat there quietly. Barry Manilow came on, to let Tony know, “Even now, when I come shining through,  
I swear I think of you” while Tony continued to look at his fingers and sit. Quietly. Reflecting.

“He downloaded a family photograph.”

“I would have said as much, yes, sir.”

Tony was still looking at his fingers, now wet but he honestly couldn’t have told you how. “Fine. Same as every month, $150,000 to each site earmarked for development on the Smirnoff solution.”

“Through the Captain America Support Network, sir?”

“Well, yeah, seeing as how the only reason it exists is to hide my paper trail.”

“Very good. Will there be anything else, Mr. Stark?”

“Yes. Check funding on Rhodey’s exoskeleton project.”

“For the purposes of development, funds led through the Armed Forces and supplemented by you, the budget is currently nearing half a billion dollars.”

“Keep an eye on that. Please erase the time stamp for this conversation and we’re done! Thank you, JARVIS.”

Tony got up and stepped towards the door.

“No, we’re not. JARVIS, please put a marker on every photo-related byte that sits in Capt. Rogers’ files.”

“Towards what end, sir?”

“If he downloads another picture…”

He looked at his hands, again. His fingers. The floor.

“Sir, for what reason am I flagging the photos?”

“If Steve tries to download any single photo from his private file…make it send them all. Not to be traced, or for tracking or to send a virus, just, send them all. He should have them.”

“Very good, sir. Third Tuesday of next month?”

“Yeah, buddy, we’ll do this again then.”

Tony reappeared in the corner of his shoe closet, noticing his cheeks were wet, too.

 

The third Tuesday of every month hurt worse than the fucking cave.

And time slowed to a torturous crawl, waiting for the next one.


End file.
